


Pretty Things

by NothingSoDivine



Series: NSD Writes Homestuck [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: ALL OF IT, ALL THE FLUFF, ARE YOU KIDDING ME, And feels, Bulges and Nooks, Dave is artistic, Eventual Sex, Fluff first though, Frottage, I promise, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Shower Sex, Tentabulges, WUZZLES ARE A THING, WUZZLES!, Xeno, Xenophilia, all of them - Freeform, all the headcanons, anyone who read the wuzzles article is awesome, cheers - Freeform, don't you just love tags, first things first, headcanons, like really artistic, lots of fluff, nobody's made wuzzles a thing yet, otherwise known as, really feelsy, really shitty summary, shitty summary is shitty, tags are the best, that has to change, the actual story is way better, time to change the tags, who knew, whoa here comes the sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-01 17:03:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2780906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingSoDivine/pseuds/NothingSoDivine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TG: ive been doing all sorts of creative shit<br/>TG: drawing pretty things<br/>TG: writing sonnets<br/>TG: fucking sonnets for chrissakes<br/>TG: sonnets<br/>TG: ive even been singing<br/>TG: fucking singing<br/>TG: its terrible<br/>TG: im serious<br/>CG: THIS SKETCHBOOK CONSISTS ENTIRELY OF PORTRAITS OF ME.<br/>TG:<br/>TG: oh<br/>TG: that</p>
<p>Karkat finds some of Dave's drawings. Not the shitty ones - the really good ones. Shenanigans ensue. Better than the summary, I promise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Headcanon: Dave loves drawing things he finds beautiful.  
> My crazy friend: HEHEHEHEHE  
> Me: *evil grin*

\-- carcinoGenetecist [CG] began trolling turntechGodhead [TG] \--

CG: STRIDER WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?

TG: what the fuck is what man

TG: cant answer a question if i dont know what the question is

TG: know what i mean

CG: THERES THIS STACK OF DRAWINGS SIGNED “DAVE STRIDER.”

CG: WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT ALL ABOUT?

TG: oh

TG: you mean sweet bro and hella jeff

TG: that stuffs the shit man

TG: cant explain that

TG: shit will lose its meaning

CG: I'M NOT TALKING ABOUT YOUR SHITTY COMICS.

CG: WHICH IS PROBABLY JUST AS WELL BECAUSE IF I WAS I WOULD BE LONG SINCE LAUNCHED INTO A HEARTFELT AND ENTIRELY JUSTIFIABLE TIRADE ABOUT THE SHEER UNADULTERATED LUNACY OF THE SO-CALLED “IRONY” OF THE AFOREMENTIONED SHITTY COMICS.

CG: I’M TALKING ABOUT THIS PILE OF DRAWINGS I FOUND UNDER THE COUCH IN THE COMMON ROOM.

CG: THE DRAWING OF THE CROW, FOR INSTANCE.

TG: fuck

TG: didnt realise id left that there

CG: DAVE.

CG: THEY’RE REALLY

TG: shitty, i know

CG: PRETTY.

TG:

TG:

TG:

TG: come again

CG: THEY’RE REALLY PRETTY.

CG: YOUR USE OF CONTRAST IS PHENOMENAL.

CG: LIKE THE CROW. THE DETAILING ON THE FEATHERS IS INCREDIBLE IN ITSELF, BUT THE CONTRAST BETWEEN THE DETAIL ON THE BIRD AND THE VAGUE BACKGROUND IS JUST AMAZING.

CG: AND THE ONE OF LOHAC.

CG: THE SIZE OF THE GEARS IN COMPARISON TO THE HAND SINKING INTO THE LAVA.

CG: IT’S VERY EFFECTIVE.

CG: DEPRESSING, BUT EFFECTIVE.

TG:

TG: excuse me for a moment while i swoon

CG: WHAT?

TG: karkat vantas just gave me a compliment

TG: karkat vantas

TG: just gave me

TG: a huge fucking compliment

TG: my ego is like

TG: jizzing itself from the excitement

TG: scuse me while i go clean that up

CG: DAVE.

TG: what

CG: WHY DO YOU DRAW SUCH SHITTY COMICS WHEN YOU CAN DRAW LIKE THIS?

CG: NOT TO MENTION HOW THE FUCK YOU MANAGE TO DRAW THAT BADLY.

TG: dude

TG: easiest fucking thing

TG: i just use my wrong hand

TG: which happens to be my right

CG: OH.

TG: but

TG: i draw sbahj because

TG: well

TG: its

CG: DON’T YOU DARE SAY

TG: ironic

CG: FUCK IT.

TG: why do you even care

CG: IT’S JUST SUCH A STUPID FUCKING WASTE OF TALENT.

TG: no need to shout

CG: I’M NOT SHOUTING.

TG: yes you are

CG: NO I AM FUCKING WELL NOT.

TG: whoa no need to get angry either

CG: I’M NOT ANGRY.

CG: Look, I’ll even take off the capslock and type properly.

TG: holy fuck it can type unobtrusively

TG: fucking miracle

TG: also

TG: you type like rose

TG: except grey

TG: fuck

TG: this is weird

TG: theres no capslock

TG: this is creeping me out

TG: THERE WE GO

TG: no thats even worse

CG: Look, Strider.

CG: Could you just…

CG: Calm your metaphorical rumblespheres for a half a second and listen?

TG: what

TG: oh

TG: sure

TG: tits calmed

TG: now what

CG: You have a fucking amazing gift.

CG: Why did you draw all this?

CG: The good stuff, I mean.

TG: oh

TG: well

TG: i guess

TG: i just

TG: like drawing things i find beautiful

TG: get what i mean

CG:

CG: Yeah.

TG: you hesitated

CG: No I didn’t.

TG: why did you hesitate

CG: I DIDN’T.

TG: well hello again

TG: and yes you did

TG: you fucking hesitated

TG: why

CG: JUST WONDERING AT THE CONSPICUOUS LACK OF SELF-PORTRAITS.

CG: OH WAIT, THEY’RE PROBABLY IN YOUR PRIVATE SKETCHBOOK LABELED “WANKBANK” IF I GUESS CORRECTLY.

TG: haha

TG: but seriously

TG: why did you hesitate

CG: THERE’S MORE OF THEM.

TG: well yeah

TG: like seriously

TG: theres like a fuckton of those things

TG: you have no idea how fucking bored ive been

TG: ive been doing all sorts of creative shit

TG: drawing pretty things

TG: writing sonnets

TG: fucking sonnets for chrissakes

TG: sonnets

TG: ive even been singing

TG: fucking singing

TG: its terrible

TG: im serious

CG: THIS SKETCHBOOK CONSISTS ENTIRELY OF PORTRAITS OF ME.

TG:

TG: oh

TG: that

CG: EXPLAIN.

TG: sure

TG: uh

TG: thats my ugly pile

CG: STRIDER.

TG: thats my name

TG: dont wear it out

CG: STRIDER WHY WOULD YOU DRAW SOMETHING YOU DON'T LIKE TO LOOK AT?

TG: who says i only like to look at pretty shit man

TG: maybe im just captivated by your stunning ugliness

TG: ever thought of that

CG: WHY THE EVERLOVING FUCK WOULD YOU WASTE AN ENTIRE FUCKING SKETCHBOOK ON DRAWING SOMETHING YOU FOUND UGLY?

TG:

TG:

TG: uh

TG:

TG: irony

CG:

CG: I’M NOT EVEN GOING TO DIGNIFY THAT WITH A RESPONSE.

TG: kay

TG: cool

CG:

CG: Strider.

TG: oh fuck

CG: Strider,

TG: fuck hes using small letters

CG: what

TG: what did you find

CG: the fuck

TG: oh shit oh shit oh shit

CG: is this?

TG: uh

TG: what the fuck is what man

TG: dont know what youre shitting over

TG: theres kind of a lot of drawings in that particular book

TG: in case you havent noticed

CG: ARE YOU IN YOUR BLOCK?

TG:

TG: yeah

CG: DON’T LEAVE.

CG: OR I WILL SHOW EVERY SINGLE PERSON I ENCOUNTER ON MY JOURNEY TO FIND YOU - AND IT WILL BE A LONG JOURNEY, I ASSURE YOU - EXACTLY WHAT YOU HAVE DRAWN.

CG: AND TRUST ME.

CG: YOU DON’T WANT THEM TO SEE THIS ONE.

TG: oh fuck

TG: im not going anywhere

\-- carcinoGenetecist [CG] ceased trolling turntechGodhead [TG] \--

TG: fuck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I refuse to apologise.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're all going to hate me for this. Here come the feels.  
> So many feels.  
> All the feels.  
>  _All of them._

Karkat storms into your block like a fucking hurricane not three minutes later. You're sitting in a forcibly casual position, cross-legged on your bed with your headphones on and your terror most likely slipping out from under your shades where you've tried to contain it. He's holding your sketchbook, which you jammed under the couch this morning when Rose came in. You were forced to abscond, forsaking the sketchbook, when Kanaya decided to join you. Your plan was to return as soon as they were gone and rescue the book, but Karkat evidently got to it first.

He holds up the sketchbook. His eyes are alight, fangs bared.

" _This_ is what I'm 'shitting over'," he snarls, flipping the book open to the page where his finger was placed and shoving the drawing in your face.

Oh. _That_ one.

You've always been fond of that one.

It's one of the ones you drew from a picture. You used your iShades to take a picture of Karkat's reaction to being jabbed between the shoulderblades with something sharp (namely the head of Terezi's cane). When drawing, as usual, you took a few... artistic liberties with it.

Okay, a _lot_ of artistic liberties.

In the drawing, Karkat's head is tossed back, mouth open wide, eyes closed. You drew his hair a little messier, even, than it is in the photo, and his skin shining with sweat. (You wore out three grey, one black and half of a white pencil crayon doing that. Luckily you've memorised the captcha code for grey pencil crayons: trollskin. Fucking ironic.) The drawing ends at his waist, because honestly you don't know how to continue, and there's nary a stitch of clothing to be seen.

It's the drawing you've affectionately dubbed, "Orgasm."

You still haven't said anything, so Karkat waves the sketchbook under your nose. "Well?" he demands. "What do you call this?"

You decide to answer literally. " _Le Petit Mort_ ," you murmur in reply.

He freezes. "Excuse me?"

You shift uncomfortably. " _Le Petit Mort_ ," you repeat. "It's French for 'the little death'. It's used to describe a feeling like part of you has died."

Slowly, like he doesn't want to see it, he turns the drawing around to face him.

"It seems," he says slowly, "like you meant it slightly differently."

Without another word, he flips the book closed and turns to leave.

"Whoa, wait," you demand, "what are you doing?"

"I'm keeping this," he says, tucking your sketchbook under his arm.

A bolt of panic flares through you, and you lunge across the bed, hands outstretched as if you could actually snatch the book away from him. You hardly even notice that you shout, "No!"

He stops dead. So do you. You haven't shouted in years, ever since you learned that shouting at Bro only made him laugh.

"You really don't need to hang on to that," you insist.

He looks over his shoulder.

"No, I really think I do," he says, before darting out of the room and shutting the door behind him.

You flop back on your bed and stare up at the ceiling.

"Fuck," you whisper.

Well, the meowbeast's out of the cloth containment receptacle now.

You spend several minutes wallowing in your misery before your shades ping.

\-- carcinoGenetecist [CG] began trolling turntechGodhead [TG] \--

TG: oh fuck what now

CG: STRIDER

CG: THIS...

CG: THIS IS UNHEALTHY.

You can't even muster the energy to respond.

CG: THIS IS MORE THAN JUST DRAWING "PRETTY SHIT", STRIDER.

CG: THIS IS OBSESSIVE.

CG: THIS IS A FUCKING OBSESSION.

CG: IT'S UNHEALTHY.

CG: YOU NEED A MOIRAIL.

CG: I'M GOING TO FIND ROSE.

TG: no

TG: dont you dare

CG: YOU NEED HELP.

TG: oh thanks

TG: now youre saying im crazy

CG: THAT'S NOT WHAT I MEANT.

CG: YOU NEED SOMEONE TO TALK TO ABOUT SHIT LIKE THIS.

CG: YOU NEED A FEELINGS JAM.

CG: YOU ARE SO STARVED FOR AFFECTION THAT YOU'RE REDUCED TO DRAWING YOUR DESPERATION AND HIDING IT UNDER THE COUCH.

CG: NO OTHER OPTIONS.

CG: I'M GOING TO FIND ROSE.

TG: NO.

You're breathing hard, and it takes you a few moments to realize you said that out loud. You're shaking - you are actually, honest-to-fucking-god shaking. You roll off your bed and leave your room.

Karkat hesitates before responding.

CG: DAVE

CG: YOU CAN'T JUST IGNORE THIS AND HOPE IT GOES AWAY.

TG: it was working perfectly fucking well until you showed up

CG: NO.

CG: NO IT WASN'T, DAVE.

CG: IF IT WAS WORKING "PERFECTLY FUCKING WELL" YOU WOULDN'T BE STANDING OUTSIDE MY DOOR TRYING TO MUSTER THE COURAGE TO KNOCK.

CG: NOW WOULD YOU?

You freeze, hand half an inch from the cold steel.

TG: how did you

CG: I'M A TROLL, DAVE.

CG: I COULD SMELL YOUR FEAR FROM ALL THE WAY DOWN THE HALL.

CG: AND BESIDES

The door swings open in front of you. Karkat is standing there, sketchbook in hand. He looks worried. That's not okay. He should not be worried. He should be entirely freaking out.

He smiles faintly. "What kind of friend would I be if I couldn't even anticipate you coming after me to get your sketchbook back?" he finishes aloud.

His tone is soft, gentle, and you have an absurd amount of difficulty mustering any venom with which to lace your words, but you manage. "What kind of friend are you," you choke out, "to look through my private shit in the first place?" Fuck, your eyes are stinging, and your throat is dry and really, really tight. Your chest feels like it's collapsing in on itself. You've never felt like this before. It's unnerving.

You never understood why people described a change in expression as someone's face falling. But that's exactly what happens. Karkat's face literally falls. Suddenly, he doesn't look so uncharacteristically sweet and concerned. He looks upset, now, and part of you sighs with relief at the familiarity even as it makes your throat tighten further and the stinging in your eyes worse.

Karkat opens his mouth, and for a second you think (hope, pray) he's going to yell at you. But then he sighs, and a rock settles into the pit of your stomach.

When he looks back up at you, his eyes are brimming with pale, pale red.

"You're right," he whispers. "I'm an awful friend. I'm a pathetic excuse for a troll, and I should never have been hatched."

He takes a step back and looks down.

"So just leave me alone," he breathes raggedly.

Your vision blurs. The light leaking from Karkat's room splinters into four swimming shards when you blink hard. You take a shaky breath and, for the first time in all your sixteen years, a white-hot tear traces its way down your cheek.

Maybe it's from shock, maybe from embarrassment; maybe it's the frustration, or the anger, or sixteen years' worth of bottling all your emotions up inside of you in a desperate attempt to emulate your Bro. But whatever the reason, you stand in the hall outside of Karkat's door and cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I REFUSE TO APOLOGISE


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Karkat's POV.)
> 
> What the fuck have you done?
> 
> You just made Dave Strider cry.
> 
> _You_ … just made _Dave Strider_ cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so short, but there was a good ending to be made.

What the fuck have you done?

You just made Dave Strider cry.

_You_ … just made _Dave Strider_ cry.

“Fuck,” you breathe. Honestly, you can’t think of anything else to say at the moment.

Then Dave sniffles, and it is truly the most pathetic thing you have ever seen. Your entire chest suddenly feels like someone’s got it in a robotic vicegrip – one of Equius’ stupid things, maybe; possibly Vriska before she went godtier, or even Aradiabot. But above the feelings of _Oh you poor wee thing_ and _Holy fuck that’s pitiful_ and every imaginable variation thereof, there’s an overwhelming sense of _What the fuck have I done and how can I fix it_.

He’s trying to keep his face on. He’s trying to keep his coolkid mask, his façade, his game face, from slipping. Somehow, that just makes the tightness in your chest even worse.

His tears are the wrong colour – they’re not red, like his blood and his eyes, but clear, which makes them really hard to see, but it doesn’t matter. Something overwhelming and primal deep inside of you just surges up and demands that you _KEEP HIM SAFE_. So you step forwards and wrap your arms around him and whisper, “I’m so sorry.”

He breaks. You literally feel him shatter in your grip, splintering into a bazillion little shards that you know you’re responsible for picking up and putting back together exactly how they were before. And there is no _way_ you are backing out. This is your fault, and _you are fixing him_. He slumps down and wraps his arms around you, burying his face in your hair and sobbing – huge, wracking sobs that sound almost enough like hyperventilation to make you worried, but you know better. Then you realise that, fuck, he’s probably never cried before. Poor guy can’t know how good it is to cry.

Normally, he’d go to his moirail for this, so you’re tempted to get in touch with Rose, no matter how obligated you feel to patch this up yourself and no matter how adamant Dave may be that she’s not his moirail, but remembering his reaction to your suggestion earlier, you hesitate.

You know it’s not a good idea, but you don't know what else to do, so you crane your head to look up at him, careful not to maim his unfairly pretty (gorgeous) face with one of your ridiculously-useless-but-probably-still-able-to-hurt-him-at-this-range horns.

“Do you want me to go get Rose?” you ask.

He tightens his grip around you until you can hardly breathe, and you don’t even need him to answer out loud, but he does anyways: “ _NO_.” You’ve never heard that much emotion in his voice before - he sounds almost alive. You can practically smell his tears in his voice. If you couldn’t smell them to begin with (salty and clean, like yours but with less pheromones), you’d probably be able to just from the tone of his voice.

You squeeze back gently. “What do you want me to do?” you murmur.

He reburies his face in your hair, heedless of the two nubby dangers concealed therein. His shades dig into your scalp.

“Just don’t leave,” he whispers, voice cracking.

Fuck. You couldn’t defy that request even if you tried.

“Don’t worry,” you whisper back. “I won’t.”

Not after what you saw in that sketchbook.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I STILL REFUSE TO yeah you get the point.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Back to Dave's POV)  
> You are, needless to say, in a state of severe emotional confusion, as Rose might say. You’re crying, for one thing, which you’ve never done before. Karkat, who you’ve had quite a crush on recently, is holding you like you’d fall to the ground and shatter if he let go while you cry into his hair, which is also a new and not entirely unpleasant experience. You want to be angry – at yourself, at Karkat for being so damn lovable, at everything – but can’t seem to find much in yourself except frustration, which appears to be the main source of the ocean currently flooding Karkat’s hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter, sorry :P but cliffhangers, right?

You are, needless to say, in a state of severe emotional confusion, as Rose might say. You’re crying, for one thing, which you’ve never done before. Karkat, who you’ve had quite a crush on recently, is holding you like you’d fall to the ground and shatter if he let go while you cry into his hair, which is also a new and not entirely unpleasant experience. You want to be angry – at yourself, at Karkat for being so damn lovable, at everything – but can’t seem to find much in yourself except frustration, which appears to be the main source of the ocean currently flooding Karkat’s hair.

Your shades are in the way, but you don’t want to take them off, because that would involve removing one arm from around Karkat, and you are so not okay with that right now. That is not okay on an unbelievable number of levels. It’s not okay on all the levels. All of them.

You sniffle again, and yeah, you’re pretty pathetic. There is no _way_ Karkat could possibly think less of you than he will after this. He’s going to loathe you in the most platonic way anyone could even imagine and he will ignore you for the rest of eternity and _that_ is what really breaks you, what really makes you lose control again just when you thought you might possibly be done washing Karkat’s hair in salt water. Shit.

He pulls away. He pulls away, and you absolutely do not make a pitiful little whine-snuffle-sob sort of noise, that is absolutely not you, it must have been someone else in the corridor. You’d almost forgotten that Karkat was tearing up too.

You’re about to flashstep out of what could potentially be the most embarrassing situation you’ve ever found yourself in, but Karkat grabs your wrist. Your face is gone, there is nothing you’re hiding. He’s not holding you hard, but his touch burns like lava, like dry ice, like the tears in your eyes and the stupid fucking _love_ in your ridiculous heart and you couldn’t pull free if you tried.

You can’t meet his gaze. You look at the floor, but you don’t see it.

“Come inside.”

You don’t register what he says. Your pulse is pounding in your ears. Your breath is coming shallowly, and you’re still crying.

He tugs at your wrist, gently, and you let him drag you. Where are you going?

He pulls you down with him. Oh.

Wait. What?

You force your eyes into focus. You’re sitting on his bed, in his room. He’s sitting beside you, looking at you with the biggest eyes you’ve ever seen. Something inside you flutters.

Fuck it. You’ve nothing left to hide.

You kiss him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternian title: In Which We Discover Why The Author Decided To Rate This As "Explicit"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, guys. The moment we've all been waiting for. The only reason every single one of you first clicked on this fic in the first place.
> 
> The sex.
> 
> Also, important: I'm using the headcanon that I just made up which states that trolls’ genetic material bladders don’t release until the second or third orgasm, or even the fourth. This means that trolls get progressively more aroused and desperate after each successive orgasm, even though each successive orgasm takes more stimulation to achieve. Plus some other unimportant stuff which is pretty self-explanatory.
> 
> I wrote the frottage because I didn't feel comfortable writing any actual sex, but then I ended up doing that anyways. :P Welp.
> 
> Merry early Christmas.

His lips taste like salt and beeswax and something earthy and slightly bitter. He smells like cinnamon and human sweat, like apples and hormones and something sweet and warm and spicy that you can’t quite name. His lips are soft, and slightly damp from tears.

He smells of heaven and tastes of despair. You let him kiss you.

The kiss is very simple – no flourishes, no fancy techniques. Just his lips on yours, gentle and tentative and oh-so-sweet. You’ve never been kissed before, and it’s nothing as special as you’d hoped, but somehow you’re calm enough to realise that it’s really rather nice anyways, and that your expectations were most likely ridiculous in the first place given how many romcoms you watch.

It’s over far too fast, and you open your eyes to find yourself inches from shiny black lenses. Your face instantly resets to its default expression: Scowl. You hate those shades right now. You hate those shades so much that if they were a troll, they would be in your caliginous quadrant before you could say “it’s ironic”. Your current feelings for those shades are of a hue only equalled by that of the shades themselves.

Dave’s getting up to leave, and your immediate though is, _Shit, what did I do wrong?_ And for a moment you tell yourself you’re overreacting to think it’s your fault, you didn’t do anything, until you remember that, fuck, you were scowling at his shades, so it probably _is_ your fault.

“What are you doing?” comes bursting out of your fucking idiotic protein chute before you can stop it, because you have absolutely jack shit in the way of filters, not to mention your impeccable social skills. (Mental facepalm x2 combo. Brilliantly executed, fuckwad.)

“Absconding,” he replies without turning around. His voice is still wavering. Fuck. Here comes that really tight feeling in your chest again. You thought you were done with that.

“I don’t think so,” you tell him without missing a beat. “We need to talk about _this_.” You raise the sketchbook you’d almost forgotten you were holding.

When he turns to see what you mean, all colour drains from his face. In what one might call a “flash of panic” (hehe) he flashsteps out of the room.

You reach over and grab your palmhusk off the bedside table.

\-- carcinoGenetecist [CG] started trolling turntechGodhead [TG] \--

CG: YOU HAVE A CHOICE HERE, DAVE.

CG: OPTION ONE, YOU GET YOUR ASS BACK HERE AND TALK THIS OUT WITH ME.

CG: OPTION TWO, YOU TALK THIS OUT WITH ROSE.

CG: YOU CHOOSE.

You don’t have to say another word. He flashsteps back.

Scowling, he stalks over to you and drops down beside you on the bed with significantly more force than really necessary.

“Take those off,” you demand – politely – when he probably refuses to meet your gaze but you can’t see it through the loathsome black plastic. Which is why you wanted him to take them off in the first place.

“My eyes are sensitive to light,” he deflects automatically.

You just raise an eyebrow. Your room is kept at a light level equivalent to Alternian twilight, which you know from your viewport exploits is approximately equivalent to if not slightly darker than the brightness of Earth at sunset.

He sighs and removes the shades.

You’ve seen his eyes before – his shades slipping, various other ridiculously unimportant reasons, and that one time you really feel obliged to not even mention in your head – but that doesn’t make it any less of a shock to see them, catching the light and gleaming red. You force yourself not to stare, sliding over closer to the lamp and beckoning Dave over with you. You are determined to make this as not-awkward as you possibly can, which you have a sneaking suspicion is going to be a piece of celebratory grubloaf, because damn if you haven’t just discovered beyond all doubt that that flush-crush (which you totally haven’t had since that time you found him listening to music in the dark, lying on his back on his bed, singing along, and fuck you weren’t going to even mention that time in your head) is definitely a thing.

“Let’s start with this one,” you say, flipping to a page in the sketchbook. It’s not as… uh… sexual as the first one you freaked over; this is just a drawing of your face. It must have been drawn from a photograph he took with his iShades or something, or a photographic memory, because it’s a drawing of one of the few moments you’ve laughed in Dave’s presence. You remember, he’d said something honestly ridiculous, and you’d burst out laughing. He’d pouted and pretended to be hurt, but he’d been smirking.

Dave smiles at the drawing, briefly, before going back to the straight face he’s tried to keep since you first met him. His eyes are still a tiny bit bloodshot from crying, but you choose not to mention it.

The drawing’s only a sketch, but you like it better for that. You think it better captures the spontaniety of the moment, so you tell him so.

He blushes a delicate shade of pink and tries to stifle a grin.

You nudge him with your shoulder. “You’re blushing.”

He nudges back. His eyes are laughing. “Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Nope.”

“Yup.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“I am _not_ doing this,” you protest. “You’re blushing. Get used to it, Strider. From now on, no masks around me.”

The laughter instantly flees his eyes. “None?”

Now you know why he hates going shadesless. You can read him like an open book when you can see his eyes. “None whatsoever,” you tell him, “because you won’t need any.”

He gives you a suspicious look. The only reasonable way to wipe that look off his face, of course, is to tackle him. So, after setting the sketchbook safely aside, that’s what you do.

There we go. Shock is much better than suspicion. You laugh.

It takes him a second to get that you’re actually laughing, and until then he seems to be even more confused than before – you laughing is, of course, a rare occurrence – but once he does get it, his expression rearranges into one of determination. Using all his strength – despite your size, you weigh a reasonable amount, ‘cause it’s all muscle – he manages to flip you off him and roll on top of you, pinning you down.

You laugh again, suddenly giddy. Shoving him off, you roll back on top of him, and when he uses your momentum to flip you again, you fall off the edge of the bed and knock your heads together.

You suddenly can’t breathe, you’re laughing so hard. Dave stifles it for a moment, before apparently deciding _fuck it_ and giggling – literally giggling. If you weren’t laughing so hard you’re concerned for the wellbeing of your ribs already, you would be now.

“You – are fucking – adorable,” you gasp out when you can catch enough of your breath back.

“No I’m not,” Dave protests from between giggles.

You knock your forehead against his, gently. “You sound like me,” you pant.

“Oh, shut up,” he complains, grinning.

“Make me,” you retort. It’s childish, you know, but what of your actions over the past couple of minutes hasn’t been? Besides, he might actually take the bait and –

Kiss you again? Yep.

You make a pleased noise deep in your chest and kiss him back.

After a devastatingly nice second, he pulls away.

“So, I guess you like me back, huh?” he asks, voice a little raw.

You grin. “You’re adorable.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

“Nope.”

“OH MY GOD WE ARE NOT DOING THIS A SECOND TIME.”

He laughs. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Shut up,” you grumble.

“Make me,” he replies, grinning. God, you can only imagine how good it feels for him to actually show emotion.

You raise an eyebrow. “You think I’m actually going to fall for that after I just used it on you?”

“Yes,” he replies.

You consider that.

“Fair enough,” you decide, and kiss him.

It’s nice for about four seconds before your arms start hurting from holding you up, so you break away and roll him off you. He starts to protest, but decides against it once you sling one leg over him so you’re straddling his hips.

“Patience is a virtue, Strider,” you inform him from your seat on his waist.

“I never needed much patience,” Dave muses. “Being the Knight of Time and all.”

You heave an exaggeratedly dramatic sigh, and Dave laughs, propping himself up to kiss you again.

This time, when he kisses you, you let your tongue dart out to lap into Dave’s mouth for a brief moment. When you pull it back, his tongue follows. It’s not as long as yours, and not as rough, but you couldn’t possibly care any less, because it feels fucking _awesome_ in your mouth. You moan. The movement is hard to put into words, but you recognise it instantly, because that’s the way your bulge moved the few times you’ve actually touched it, and whoa does that thought ever send the blood rushing south. You feel the tip of your bulge start slithering out of its sheath, and you almost panic, because this has the potential to become a really awkward development, but you don’t let yourself. _Life is short_ , you decide, and kiss Dave harder.

He pulls away, and you absolutely do not whine, (no you do not, it just sounds that way in your head,) but then he starts trailing lazy and open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, and the whine turns into a full-out groan.

“ _Fuck_ that’s nice,” you manage breathlessly, and he chuckles against your skin. You can feel something that’s most definitely not a bulge like yours stirring slightly in his pants, and you start panicking again, but then Dave licks a long, wet trail from the collar of your sweater all the way up to your ear, and all worries about anatomical differences fall right out of your head. You try to tell him, _Again_ , but only manage a breathy moan. Dave seems to get the message, though. Good. If he hadn’t, you’d have had to knock some sense into his head.

He stops, and you make a (totally not pitiful) noise of protest, until he slides both hands under your sweater and the tips of his (graceful elegant gorgeous) slender fingers brush against your grubscars. You make an undignified squeaking sound.

“Sorry!” Dave exclaims, tugging his hands away, but you grab his wrists to stop him, and he freezes.

“’S okay,” you murmur. Fuck, your voice is really low at the moment, heavy with all the mating frequencies he probably can’t hear, or at least doesn’t understand. “Just ticklish.”

“So… don’t touch them?” Dave asks.

“Never said that,” you manage in reply. “Either harder or lay off, because what you did really tickles.”

“Gotcha.” Dave places his hands back on your waist, and you shiver. “You good?”

“Never been better,” you gasp out, trying to stifle a chirp. That would be embarrassing if he managed to get you to –

Fuck. You slap a hand over your mouth.

Dave looks startled, if amusedly so. “What was that?”

“Fuck you,” you manage from behind your hand. “You caught me by surprise.”

The fucker does it again – rubs your grubscars, _hard_ , with the pads of his fingers – and you have to bite down on your knuckles to stifle the noise threatening to spill from your mouth.

Dave leans forwards, nudging your hand out of your mouth with the side of his face, his hands being occupied with your grubscars. “Let me hear you,” he breathes, and the tone of his voice makes your bulge writhe in your jeans and your breath catch in your throat. Then your bulge brushes against whatever Dave’s hiding in his jeans and _whoa, what_ , that is absolutely not a normal bulge but _fuck_ it feels nice against yours, even through multiple layers of cotton and denim.

He digs his nails into the raised scar tissue and you make a thoroughly embarrassing noise in the back of your throat before leaning forward and biting down on the corner of Dave’s shoulder and his neck. He shudders under you and makes a strangled but not at all displeased noise.

Pulling you close, Dave rolls you both over, pinning you to the floor. His weight on top of you, the reminder of his presence, is intoxicating, and you grab two handfuls of his hair and kiss him, hard.

He moans into your mouth, rolling his hips into yours, and _fuck_ , that was good, do that again. You don’t _think_ you’re talking out loud, but either way, he does as he’s told, grinding whatever that hard thing in his pants is down against your bulge. God, that feels amazing, and you tell him so by filling his mouth with your moans, but your nook is throbbing and if you don’t get some contact a little lower down you feel like you’re going to die.

You’ve long ago figured out that you don’t actually have to stick anything anywhere the first time around, despite the shit you’ve read and (unfortunately) talked about with some of your more shameless friends. Provided you get the right amount of pressure, you don’t have to worry about clawing up your internal organs on the first orgasm, because there’s more than enough nerves on the outside of your nook. But right now, all the pressure’s on your bulge, and while that’s nice (it’s great, it’s absolutely fantastic), it’s _just not enough_. So you shove Dave off and roll you both over again.

There we go. Whatever Dave’s packing is rubbing right along the outside of your nook through your jeans, and as you’ve already discovered, the texture of damp denim pressed against tender skin does beautiful things, even through your underwear. You dive down and attack Dave’s neck.

Oh fuck, he tastes amazing. He smells even better than before: the same scent, but now it’s flooded with hormones and musk and it’s such an intoxicating smell that all it takes to send you over the edge is Dave moaning and tipping his head away to allow you better access to his neck. It’s such a trusting gesture, one of such submission and desperation, and you think that’s the reason you grip his shirt so hard you tear it and moan into his neck as your release ripples through you.

You’re not done yet – you know that. You can already feel the tension building a second time, and you know from experience you’ll need at least one more orgasm to be able to actually release any material. But you guess from the way whatever’s in Dave’s pants is behaving that it’s not the same for humans. You can tell by the smell of raw musk that he’s finished. Which is a slight problem, because you’re not.

You know for a fact that post-orgasm you like to relax and enjoy the haze, so you do your best to let Dave do the same, but after about a minute, you’re kind of back to a state of Desperately Horny. So you pick your head up off Dave’s chest and look him in the eyes.

He’s having a little trouble focusing. You know the feeling.

You let your desperation show in your voice. “Dave,” you murmur.

He mutters under his breath for a second before his eyes find your face. “Yeah?” he replies. His voice has gone totally post-orgasm purr.

“I’m not done,” you whisper, before kissing him gently.

That wakes him up. “Shit, what?” he asks. “I’m sorry, I thought you –”

“I did,” you inform him between kisses. “But I’m not done.”

“You need –”

“More,” you finish for him. “Yeah. At least one more.”

Dave smiles and sits up, slowly so you don’t knock your heads together again. “All right,” he says, grabbing the hem of your sweater and sliding it up, “I gotcha.”

Fuck, he’s a wonderful person.

You sit back on your haunches to allow Dave to pull your sweater off over your head. The second it’s off, he descends on your mouth, and you chirr happily in the back of your throat, pushing forwards into the kiss.

One of Dave’s hands covers yours where you’re propping yourself up; the other trails down your newly-bared side. When he reaches the waistband of your jeans, he stops, so you make an encouraging noise and place your free hand over his, guiding his hand down to where your jeans are fastened. He starts to work on the button, and you place your hand on his thigh, sucking his tongue into your mouth.

He makes a startled noise that goes straight to your nook, and suddenly it feels really empty. His fingers are taking way too long on your jeans, so you shove his hand aside and unzip them yourself, then grab his hand back and show him exactly where you want it.

He gets the message.

When his first finger dips inside your nook, you’re not prepared for it, and moan louder than you knew you could, tipping your head back, silently begging him to get his mouth on your neck _right now_. He does, and you bite your lip, rocking your hips back against his hand, wordlessly demanding more.

Your bulge lashes around his wrist. His teeth scrape against your neck. His finger probes further. You keen. He pants against your skin. His breath is hot. He adds another finger – all the way in, not a second to adjust before he crooks them both and you moan.

He spreads his fingers.

You cry out, digging your claws into his leg and arching up as your nook clenches around his fingers and your second release hits you like a brick wall.

Body wracked with aftershocks, it takes you a moment to realise you still haven’t spilled, and in that moment of clarity is when your mind is lucid enough to panic.

“Fuck.” You feel like that’s an appropriate segue. Your voice feels strange. “Do you have a bucket?”

Dave seems taken aback. “Do I have a what now?”

“Bucket,” you gasp. His fingers are still as deep as they can go in your nook, but you’ve no reason to let him take them out. A glance down tells you his whatever-it-is is hard again. You might need that, depending on how elusive your next orgasm decides to be. “This one’s going to make a mess.”

“You’re telling me you’re still not done, and you need a bucket?” he says.

Your face has got to be bright red by now. “Yes,” you manage. “Do you have one?”

“No,” he mutters.

You swallow hard. Your throat’s dry. “Shit.”

Dave thinks for a minute, and every second is sheer torture. He’s _still_ got his fingers in your nook, but he’s not _doing_ anything with them and it’s not helping your desperation at the moment. Though it’s probably actually a good idea to be not doing anything, since you really don’t want a mess.

“The shower,” Dave says suddenly.

Your eyes snap back up to his face from where they were lingering significantly lower. “Yes.”

He nods and goes to pull his fingers out of you. You keen pitifully and grab his wrist, nearly overbalancing yourself, but you manage.

He meets your eyes, and you clench around his fingers. He makes a strangled little noise.

“Seems we have a slight problem here,” he manages. You just nod.

His brow furrows for a second, and you revel in the ability to see his whole face. Normally that would be hidden behind his shades.

“Hold on tight,” he instructs, and you do, grabbing his shoulders and wrapping both legs around his waist. His arm’s kind of squished between your bodies, but his fingers are still in you, so you don’t mind.

Somehow, Dave manages to get the two of you upright while carrying you like a clingbeast and only using one hand. Stumbling around the bed, he carries you into your ablution block and steps into the trap.

Reaching over, you turn the water on to hot. Almost instantly, lukewarm water sprays down on the both of you – someone somewhere on the meteor must have used the hot water recently, gotten it warmed up.

Dave sputters, toeing off his shoes and socks and kicking them aside while you reach over his shoulder and close the curtain. He’s smiling, and his hair is covering his eyes. You brush it back and he kisses you, crooking the fingers still shoved up your nook.

You moan, rolling your hips into his hand, and grab at the hem of his shirt. He stumbles and ends up pinning you against the cold tile wall. You shiver, but you’re grinning as you twist your head to break the kiss and pull his shirt up over his head.

Shit. The shirt won’t come off as long as he’s got his fingers in your nook. You both pause.

Your vision’s going dark around the edges and you’re breathing in little gasps. You recognise the warning signs. If you don’t come soon you’re going to forget how to breathe. You’ve tried holding out on yourself out of curiosity. You tend to wake up ten minutes later in a pile of spunk with something shoved up your nook that you don’t remember putting there. It doesn’t always come out easily.

Cursing, you wrap your hand around Dave’s wrist and pull him out of you, hissing at the sudden empty feeling. Unwrapping your legs from his waist and leaning heavily against the wall, you tug his shirt off him and start on his pants.

Your vision’s going black. Your socks are getting wet, so you pull them off, abandoning Dave’s pants, as you can no longer see them with your vision going out in the dark room. You strip your own off instead.

“Dave,” you gasp out with what little breath you have left. “Dave, just hurry up.”

He grabs your ass and hoists you up the wall, and you groan, but then he just stops. The groan turns into a whine.

“Dave,” you inform him breathlessly, “I can’t see a thing.” This is true. “I have no idea what you’re doing –” this is also true – “but if you don’t put whatever fucked-up alien bulge you’re equipped with into my nook right now –” you take a desperate, shuddering breath – “when I wake up from this, I’m going to find you and bash your head in with whatever I find I’ve shoved up my nook. Clear?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, before pulling you down onto his bulge.

It’s so thick. That’s the only thought in your head right now. It’s so thick, stretching you all the way to the base and it doesn’t move, he has to thrust into you, but when he does you throw your head back against the wall and scream. The tip slams against your seedflap, and _fuck, that was never meant to be done this way,_ it’s supposed to be teased open by a tapered bulge, not slammed into by one like Dave’s, and you can feel _everything_ , the nerves way in the deepest parts of your nook are freaking out, and he’s pounding into you hard and fast and you’re coming harder than you’ve ever come in your life, and your genetic material is going everywhere, and the water’s washing it away and your vision’s swimming, and for a second you have to just breathe.

Dave’s stopped moving, and you wonder for a second whether he finished but you can feel that he did, his bulge is softening in your nook. Your own bulge is retreating back into its sheath, and you’re grinning like a maniac.

“That,” you manage, “was fucking beautiful.”

He kisses you.

He smells like apples and cinnamon and your genetic material.

You kiss him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE COMES THE SMUT! DO-DO-DO-DOOO! HERE COMES THE SMUT, AND I SAID, IT'S ALL RIGHT!!!! :P
> 
> Also, I feel like there would totally be koalas on Alternia, and they would be called clingbeasts.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wee Christmas gift for the merry idiots who've been reading this whole thing from start to finish.

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] started pestering twinArmageddons [TA] \--

TG: hey

TG: hey captor

TA: what the actual fuck do you want from me, 2triider.

TG: i hear youre the man with the codes

TG: youve got all the codes

TG: all of them

TA: what do you want.

TG: well do you have all the codes

TA: all of them.

TG: in that case

TG: i need the captcha code for a picture frame

TG: eight and a half by eleven

\-- twinArmageddons [TA] sent turntechGodhead [TG] the file “CPTCH_00612.txt” --

TA: that fiile ii2 all the piicture frame2.

TG: all of them you say

TA: now fuck off.

TA: ii’m bu2y.

\-- twinArmageddons [TA] blocked turntechGodhead [TG] PERMANENTLY AND IIRREVOCABLY 2O FUCK OFF 2TRIIDER \--

TG: wow touchy

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering twinArmageddons [TA] \--

You pull up the file Sollux sent. It’s a table, with the captcha codes down the right-hand column and the names down the left. And, surprise surprise, the left column’s blue and the right column’s red.

You skim through the names column. You don’t want anything ridiculously fancy – nothing that will detract from the drawing itself.

There we go: Simple wood frame. Perfect. You head for the communal alchemiter.

Not thirty seconds later, you’re holding the perfect picture frame in your hands, still warm from being zapped into existence. You head back to your room. Time to do a couple finishing touches.

Back in the safety of your room, you admire your masterpiece. It really is a thing of beauty, this one. It’s a drawing of you and Karkat, taken from a picture you took with the aid of a little timey-wimey tomfoolery. See, one benefit of having Time as your aspect is that all your memories are timestamped, so it only takes you one try to zap back to the right point in the timeline. Then all that remained was (in this case) for you to zap yourself further back out of what could have potentially become an awkward situation – you would have zapped forwards but you’re not sure you can – and wait in the dark, drawing your new project.

The point you zapped back to for this drawing was just after Karkat had shoved your hand down his pants and bared his throat for you. His spine’s arched gracefully back, one hand on the ground and one on your thigh; you’ve got one hand covering the hand he’s got on the ground and the other in his jeans, and your face is buried in his neck. You didn’t need to take artistic liberties with this one. It’s beautiful enough.

The frame fits perfectly. You grin. Damn, it feels good to show emotion.

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] started pestering carcinoGenetecist [CG] \--

TG: karkat

TG: come to my room

TG: i have a surprise for you

CG: NO FUCKING WAY.

CG: I’M NOT FALLING FOR SOMETHING AS FLIMSY AS THAT.

CG: GET A GRIP.

TG: im serious

TG: i have something for you

CG: THEN BRING IT HERE.

TG: fair enough

TG: be right there

TG: <3

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering carcinoGenetecist [CG] \--

CG: <3

You flashstep to Karkat’s block, picture safely tucked away in your sylladex, and knock on the door. It swings open not half a second later.

“What?” Karkat growls in greeting.

You shove your way into his room and flop down on his bed. “Gimme a kiss and you’ll find out,” you reply, looking at him over the rim of your shades and wiggling your eyebrows.

Rolling his eyes (but not protesting, you notice), he crawls across the bed and kisses you.

“Now, what do you want?” he demands.

You pull the picture out of your sylladex and hand it to him face-down. “Merry Christmas.”

“Christmas?” he inquires, taking the picture but looking at your face.

You pull off the shades, and he visibly relaxes. “Christmas,” you confirm. “Apparently the troll equivalent was something called Twelfth Perigee’s Eve?”

“Oh,” he responds. A pause. Then: “Thank you.”

He still hasn’t looked at it, so you smile and flip it over.

His eyes go so wide you have trouble keeping a straight face – not that you haven’t had trouble with that a lot around Karkat recently.

“What do you think?” you ask. Your voice is laughing.

Karkat looks up, dumbstruck, to see you grinning back down at him.

“You,” he proclaims, “are fucked up.”

“Why thank you,” you reply.

“But,” he continues, “you are also perfect, and this drawing is mindblowingly beautiful.”

You don’t have a response.

“And so,” he finishes, “Merry fucking Christmas, Strider.”

You kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas.
> 
> (Also, the previous note is to be read in a Pippin voice.)


End file.
